


The Lives of Others

by Questioning_Silence



Category: NCIS
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:13:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24922117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Questioning_Silence/pseuds/Questioning_Silence
Summary: Just a tiny little scene inspired by the showrunners’ hints about what the last few moments of the NCIS season finale would have looked like, had the remainder of the season not been cancelled.
Relationships: Jethro Gibbs/Jacqueline "Jack" Sloane
Comments: 18
Kudos: 112





	The Lives of Others

Usually when Leon Vance stopped by her office on a Friday evening, it was for her benefit, not his. Today was different.

“Hey, Jack,” he caught her attention while still standing in the doorway, fingers wrapped around the edge of the jamb.

He looked old, was her first thought, exhaustion writ clear in his white-knuckled grip and the lines around his eyes. This week had brought all of them to the brink.

“Hey.”

He stepped into her office, settled heavily into the chair in front of her desk, and allowed his eyes to run over the familiar lines of the elephant painting behind her desk. 

“Never did hear the story of that one,” he noted with an absent nod to the image.

She smiled. “It was a gift... from a friend.”

“That part I guessed,” he admitted softly, and with just enough of a smirk to let her know she wasn’t fooling him.

She ducked her head to hide her smile. Things were complicated enough between the two of them. Didn’t help that the whole office seemed to think they knew every detail.

He seemed to hesitate for a bare moment. “I wish he weren’t alone tonight.”

Her head shot up, smile gone and frown replacing it. “Don’t hint, Leon,” and her voice was sharp, defensive.

“Not a hint,” he denied, tilting his head back to look up at the ceiling. “Just, weeks like these, cases like these, I start to wonder if he’ll be alright.”

\----

Bishop watched a drop of condensation bead on her half-finished beer, then surrender to the tug of gravity and drop to the heavy wood counter of the bar. “I worry about him,” she admitted, and her partner didn’t have to ask what she meant. Torres reached over, and laid his hand lightly over hers. They stayed that way until it was time to leave.

\----

It was too late, by the time McGee got home, to tuck in his children. They were long-asleep, snuggled cozily in beds piled high with well-loved stuffed animals that never quite seemed to lose their musty odor despite repeated washings. Without them, he mused, without his family, he didn't know how he could continue to cope.

He stood in his twins' doorway until he heard Delilah wheel her chair up behind him. 

“Go to them,” she said quietly, light fingers brushing up against his wrist, “they’re out cold.” And he did.

\----

When Gibbs got home that night, he showered in his ground-floor bathroom. There was something about the case that he couldn’t bear to take any further into his house – into his life – than it already had over the past two weeks.

He climbed the stairs in the dark, hair dripping, padding his way down the hallway and into his bathroom. With meticulous care, he brushed his teeth before entering his bedroom to find pajamas.

A tiny shuffling sound caught his attention.

“What kept you so late?” the sleep-slurred voice came from the direction of his bed, just beyond what his un-adjusted eyes could pick up in the dark. “I know you sent your team home hours ago.”

He didn’t answer. By touch alone he pulled a pair of sweatpants from a dresser drawer and slipped them on.

He turned back to the bed, where the faint glow of streetlight entering through the strip between the curtain and window edge was now enough for his eyes to give form to the prone figure in his bed – to dust gold across the blonde and silver across the scars that edged between shoulder blades until they disappeared into his sheets.

He sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, where her tossing and turning had already pulled the covers away from the mattress, and ran slow fingertips up and down her spine – aimlessly, gently, convincing himself still after all these weeks that she was here.

She hmm’ed drowsily as he swept her hair off the back of her neck, but when he pressed a quiet kiss to her shoulder blade, she rolled onto her side catching up his fingers with her own and tugging him down alongside her. Sleep-clumsy, she tugged at the sheets until they covered them both, then settled her cheek into the hollow at the front of his shoulder as she wrapped an arm around him.

“Do you want to talk?” she murmured, and seemingly was not offended when there was no response. Instead, he turned toward hers, chin resting alongside the top of her head, and waited for the sleep that would be a long time coming.


End file.
